Tuesday, May 2, 2017

Kit Kelen #481 - Mary's


last of April
which was a Sunday
Caent Fort, Mount Brown, Kilmainham

I call it the hundred flush home

every address should be a poem
whether or not pronounceable
that's how to remember where everyone lives

and here we were
tomorrow Iceland
today all Dublin grey
the twilight might have been Celtic
but it was a Georgian drizzle
washed over Edwardian tiger terrace

you were having a lie in
it was long, it was a Sunday

and while one wishes
not to be a demanding guest
I was nevertheless becoming
a long list of needs
principally for the heating of the indoor tundra
for the wifi-which-wasn't password
how could I have known?

past the polite cough
and creak of stairs
the many flushes of the lazy loo
I began to wonder
if you might not have passed away in the night

which could have been a suicide pact with Michael
how would we tell the guards?

what to do?

being a dog myself
thinking of Frankie
and knowing your proclivities
I considered bursting into the room
all tails wagging
leaping onto the bed
for the little cheeklick
and for the long slobber
for the shake about
and paw ouch
dog's breath
tummy rub

I had a hunch that this all might work
if only I said not a word 

1 comment:

  1. your photo
    like the american gods
    the country wondering
    about itself
    the gods biding their time


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